


Fare thee well

by officialchildermass



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: I could tag it with relationship 'Jonathan/Arabella' but it's not the focus of the story, Mary the maid, Post-Book, Post-Series, aka; spoilers!, or perhaps it is I don't know.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-29
Updated: 2015-06-29
Packaged: 2018-04-06 21:31:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4237365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/officialchildermass/pseuds/officialchildermass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After everything, Childermass meets the two greatest magicians of the modern age.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fare thee well

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for the end of the series/the end of the book.

Summer 1817

Childermass swung up his legs on the table in the common room of the inn Vinculus and he were staying in. If the barkeep shot him disapproving glances, he purposely took no notice. He started filling his pipe, with the last of his old tobacco. They would have to visit a dump _with_ a general store sometime soon. Somehwere close; Bradford, perhaps. Moreover, they should find a way to earn money. While his savings were ample, they would eventually run out.

“Could you do your smoking outside, please,” demanded the innkeep, who was dutifully scrubbing the counter. Childermass slowly cocked his head, then rose to his feet and without another word went outside. The weather would have been pleasant, almost warm, if it hadn’t been for the cold rain, coming down heavily.

He took shelter beneath the inn’s rooflet and lit his pipe, inhaling deeply. He closed his eyes.

Memories came flooding back.

_He is working in Hurtfew Abbey’s library. The rain patters on the roof, but not as loudly as it would have in a regular house. Childermass suspects it is De Chepe’s labyrinth, shielding the library from anyone or anything that means to do it harm; and rain and books do not go together quite so well._

_He is in York, feet up on the table. He has just sent the carriage off to Hurtfew Abbey with the few books he claimed from the now disbanded Society. He lights his pipe and thinks about what the future will hold: the restoration of English Magic.  
He remembers the rain, after being shot, in his laudanum-filled dreams. Not English rain, mind you. Faerie rain; it cuts his skin, makes the malevolent trees groan when it strikes them, and does not feed the soil, but bleeds it out._

A droplet of rain fell on his nose. He looked up – the rooflet leaked. He inhaled again and simply took a step to the left.

It had been a few months since he left Mr Norrell’s service – or rather, was discharged. He ruminated on his own promise, that Mr Norrell would be the last employer he would ever have. He did not know if he had kept to his words. He supposed he was the Raven King’s man now, but how could he know for sure? He still could not read his book.

With a long sigh, he nudged a pebble around with the toe of his boot.

Another drop of rain fell on his face. With his mouth twisting in a slightly annoyed grimace, he looked up once again – only to find the rooflet gone. He spun around, almost dropping his pipe when he found the inn and the other hovels of the small town gone. Instead, what surrounded him was an empty moor, stretching farther than the eye could see. Wildly, he spun back around. There was no-one, nothing, save the muck beneath his feet and the rain lashing his face.

He kept a close watch on his surroundings and listened carefully as he doused his pipe and put it in one of the pockets of his greatcoat. That was when he became aware of the magic.

At first it advanced slowly, like ebb setting in, creeping up invisibly; but then, all at once, it came crashing down on him, it’s violent currents forcing him down on his knees, making him gasp for breath. He buried his head between his arms as a horrible, high sound pierced his eardrums.

When he thought the worst was over a second wave followed, throwing him down ‘gainst the damp dirt and mud, where he writhed with the pain – getting shot was nothing, compared to this.

As abruptly as it had broken loose, it stopped, to then retreat slowly. However, it lingered in the background, ready to explode again at the slightest incitation.

Childermass sat up, and laid eyes on Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell.

“By Bird and Book,” he muttered under his breath, before slowly getting to his feet. Were they reflections of the magicians? But no – Jonathan Strange smiled his trademark smile, his hands clasped behind his back, and Mr Norrell regarded him exactly as he used to, when they were still in mutual respect with each other. The resemblance was _too_ striking.

“Mr Norrell,” he inclined his head, “and Mr Strange.”

“Come, Childermass,” said Strange, “no need to stand on formalities.”

While Mr Norrell and Strange did not seem perturbed at all by this unforeseen meeting, Childermass was completely overcome by the many questions he had, rendering him almost unable to speak. The only thing he managed to eventually sputter was, “how?”

Mr Norrell sighed. “Have I not taken every care to instruct you to always be precise, Childermass?”

Childermass regarded his former master darkly. He had lost weight, he saw, and his wig was transformed to an utter disaster, with its ribbon untied and its general messiness.

He started shaking his head slightly, and eventually settled on, “where have you been?”

“We do not know,” said Strange.

“We suspect some realm of Faerie, but we have travelled through what I think was Agrace, the Bitter Lands, and we, oh, Childermass, we have been _everywhere_.” Mr Norrell’s eyes started sparkling with a wonder Childermass recognised all too well.

“And you are,” Childermass continued, uncertainly, “not suffering from the Darkness any longer?”

Mr Norrell shook his head, and Strange said, “not in Faerie.” Ruefully, he added, “we had to leave England because of it.”

“And you have not found a spell to lift it,” concluded Childermass. “So, where are we now? Where have you brought me? Forgive me, sirs, but what is the purpose of this meeting?”

Both Mr Norrell and Strange looked around, as if they only now seemed to notice that they were somewhere, but nonetheless they did not seem surprised.

“Well,” started Mr Norrell, undoubtedly warming up to one of his long lectures (to which Strange, and to a lesser extent Childermass, was still rather allergic).

Strange interrupted him. “We had hoped you would know. We have been to a multitude of places where we found we could not advance through, and would find ourselves transported back to where we started. This is one of them.”

Childermass rubbed one of his ears, which were still ringing after the approach of the violent magic. He wondered if, even though the Darkness was not visible nor, indeed, existent here, remnants of its magic remained. Then he said, “I suppose ‘t is the borderlands? The land of the gateways from England to Faerie? I do… _feel_ , the magic that is surrounding you.”

Strange and Mr Norrell kept looking at him expectantly, as if they were waiting for him to divulge to them the secrets of their new, vagabonding and wandering existence.

Childermass looked up at the sky, and then dropped his gaze on the two first modern magicians. “I do not have the answer you seek.”

Childermass noticed that Mr Norrell was looking pointedly at a spot on his face. Raising his hand to his cheek as on instinct, he rubbed the scar there. Mr Norrell looked down, and seemed to be about to say something when Strange, who had been holding Childermass’s gaze, asked, “how long has it been?”

After a brief pause, Childermass said, “three months.”

“Could you,” Strange started.

Childermass understood.

“Yes.”

 

A few days later, on a summer evening, Childermass rode into Clun village, with Vinculus seated behind him, his hands on Childermass’s shoulders.

“This land is all too shallow,” sang Vinculus, “‘tis painted on the sky, and trembles like the wind-shook rain, when the Raven King goes by.”

Childermass raised his eyes heavenwards and would have shot Vinculus a dark look, had he been able.

“It is a good thing we are not high up in Northern England,” he muttered. “Who knows who’s listening to your little ballad.”

They crossed a bridge, and when they reached the other side, he muttered, “whoa, easy,” and he leaned forward to scratch Brewer under his mane.

He dismounted (by swinging his right leg over the horse’s neck – uncomfortable and dangerous, but there was no other way with Vinculus sat behind him) and handed Vinculus the reins.

“Find a tavern. Get a room, one night. We will leave again in the morning.”

Vinculus only cackled and spurred Brewer on.

Childermass pressed his topper tighter onto his head and looked north, at the bridge crossing the river; the way they had come from. Then he turned around and started walking east, the setting sun warming his back. He buried his hands in his pocket and his fingers came into contact with his pipe. Something resembling a smile started pulling the right corner of his mouth up, but his heart remained weighed down by grief, and the smile never reached his eyes.

After walking for a few minutes, he reached Ashfair House.

Upon knocking, Mary, the Strange’s maid, opened the door. She stood there gaping at him, and Childermass cleared his throat.

“Come in,” said Mary, a blush forming on her cheeks. “I shall tell Mrs Strange you have… arrived.”

Not ten seconds later, Arabella flew into the hallway. “Childermass!”

“Mrs Strange,” he said. “I have a message from your husband.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure exactly what this is. Mainly processing feelings.
> 
> Nevertheless, thank you for reading.


End file.
